


Boxing Day

by PugMaster



Category: Punch-Out!! (Video Games)
Genre: Christmas, Don't Have to Know Canon, Family Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Mild Language, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 10:58:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8976904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PugMaster/pseuds/PugMaster
Summary: Like a lot of Christmases, this one had a nice soundtrack: tinny carols on a ten-dollar radio, melted snow dripping down the fire escape, and some little punk beating on the gym’s door like it was going out of style.





	

Like a lot of Christmases, this one had a nice soundtrack: tinny carols on a ten-dollar radio, melted snow dripping down the fire escape, and some little punk beating on the gym’s door like it was going out of style. Seven PM on Christmas Day, and Doc couldn't even settle into his La-Z-Boy without being interrupted. He slammed the mug of hot cocoa onto the coffee table, pulled on the grimy jacket closest to him, and stomped down the narrow steps. The convenience of living right above his gym was almost undone by the building’s busted-down elevator, but it wasn't like he could pack up and move. Even if that'd get him away from the little door-beating brats.

It took a minute of fumbling with the key ring, but eventually Doc managed to open the side door— right into the punk’s face. The kid stumbled backwards into the gray sidewalk slush. Took a second to center himself. Still didn't say anything.

“What do you want, kid? You one of Santa’s elves or something?” Doc chuckled a little at his own joke.

The kid didn't. He stood ankle-deep in the sidewalk slush in a pair of torn-up, half-laced boots. On a second look, he wasn't totally unfamiliar— Doc had seen him hanging in the corner, hands wrapped carelessly, waiting for the heavyweights to clear out. His name was Mackenzie something. Or maybe that was his last name. He stared vacantly at Doc, silent and blank.

“The gym’s closed,” Doc tried again.

Mackenzie—or Mac, because he looked too rough around the edges for more than one syllable—tugged at his shorts. They were standard-issue high school gym shorts; they left his little chicken legs exposed to the cold. He looked Doc square in the eyes and said, “So?”

Somehow, Doc found it in himself not to haul off and smack the little bastard. “ _So_ , that means you're trespassing on my property. I could call the cops on you.”

“Just let me in.”

Doc stared down at Mac, teeth gritted, trying to remember how little he wanted to end up in jail today, especially over something as stupid as this. Whatever the hell this little punk thought he was doing, he could go do it somewhere else.

And yet, he couldn't slam the door shut. “Look, it's Christmas,” Doc said with a sigh. “Don't you have somewhere to be?”

“Here,” Mac said.

He could have strangled the kid at that. “Where's your mother?”

“Dunno.”

Oh. Doc shouldn't have been surprised, but he still took the word like a punch. Mac didn't look too bothered at that, just hitched his shorts up again and tried to look tough. Tough, even though he was maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. Mac’s stare didn't waver.

“I can't open the gym today,” Doc says. “It costs too much to keep it heated.”

Mac rocked back onto his heels, getting his toes out of the icy water. But he didn't leave.

Doc rubbed his temple and asked, “You had anything to eat today, son?”

At the word _son_ , Doc expected Mac’s ears to perk up, but Mac stepped back a little more. His greasy black hair fell over his eyes, making him look like the world’s scrawniest sheepdog.

“I don't need food,” he said, and threw his arms up in an unskilled attempt at a block.

“You don't need to box today, either.” Doc could feel his resolve slipping, though it shouldn't have— what was one more scrawny, hungry kid, wading through slush? Small, pathetic, and pissed-off, just like a dozen other guys on this block. He turned away, ready to shut the door.

“C’mon, I don't have nowhere else to go!”

He yelled it with enough force that Doc thought he'd crack his ribs.

Doc glanced from Mac to the dark, cold inside of the gym. It was only getting colder with the door swinging open.

“You don't care if the heat’s off, do you?”

Mac shook his head.

“All right, come on inside.”

Mac followed him in dumbly, like a duckling follows its mother. Under the gym's high ceilings, he looked even more ready to just faint straight away. Still, he stood hunched, watching for punches that weren't coming.

What did he have to feed this kid? Nothing but Chinese takeout and half a smashed candy bar from deep in the pockets of his jacket. And an emergency bag of M&Ms from under the counter. He tossed the M&Ms to the kid and said, “Wait here. I'll find you something.”

Back up the creaky stairs, back to the apartment. It'd probably have been easier to bring Mac to the food, rather than the other way around, but given that this kid could still rob him blind, it was worth lugging a few cartons back down the stairs.

He set the boxes in front of Mac. “There's kung pao chicken and sweet and sour pork. Take your pick.” Mac was still shoveling the M&Ms in his face when Doc left to dig up some attempt at place settings.

The card table had a broken leg and couldn't stand straight, but it was good enough for leftover takeout that was cold in the middle and slopped over stale rice. Mac ate like an animal, hunched over the Styrofoam plate protectively, barely using the chopsticks at all. He ended up having twice as much as Doc. Not that either of them were keeping track.

“So,” Doc said as he set the empty carton down, “where were you planning on going after this?”

Mac blinked at him. “Home, I guess.”

“And where's that at?”

“None of your damn business,” Mac snapped. Apparently he forgot whose gym he was sitting in.

“All right, all right.” Doc raised his hands and tried to make himself look nonthreatening. Tough, considering he could probably snap the kid like a twig if he got pissed enough. “Just making sure you have some place to go after I lock the gym back up.”

Mac lifted his slumped head, tearing his eyes from the empty plate. “You're lockin’ it up?”

“I have to.”

After a second, Mac nodded. “All right. Sure. Whatever.”

“Look, why'd you come by here, anyway?” Doc leaned over the table like a cop conducting an interrogation. “There's shelters for guys like you.”

“I don't need a shelter!” Mac scowled at him and said more quietly, “I've got a home.”

“Then why are you trying to get into the gym on Christmas?”

“I wanna fight.” That was how he said it— _fight_ , not _box_ , as if the ragged sandbags could put up any kind of fight. And staring across the table at Doc, he looked ready to start a fight with anybody.

Doc didn't take the bait. “Why my gym? There's gotta be a dozen gyms around here,” he said, ignoring that he was lax at best with collecting dues and shooing kids away. He couldn't get more strict. He didn't have it in him.

For the first time all evening, Mac’s eyes lit up. “You're _the_ Doc Louis!” he said. His voice pitched up a little— so the gravelly voice was an act, then. “You were the undefeated champion three years running!” Quickly, he tried to cover up his gawky smile.

“That was a long while back,” Doc said, brushing off twenty-year-old cheering. “Anyway, that doesn't have anything to do with you.”

Mac chewed on that for a while before he started getting twitchy again. Staring over at the equipment, he blurted out, “So can I—”

“Not today, son.”

That time, Mac accepted the word with half a smile. “Tomorrow?”

Doc chuckled. “The day after Christmas?”

“You know what they call the day after Christmas?” Mac picked up the empty carton— he'd picked it clean.

“I don't know, what?”

“Boxing Day.”

Boxing Day. Of course. Doc looked at this kid again, eyes bright with hero-worship.

“Well, if you want to come back on Boxing Day, you're gonna need something a little better than that.” Doc gestured to Mac in his gym shorts and holey t-shirt. “Wait here. I'll get you something.”

The lost and found bin wasn't usually worth opening up, considering how nasty and worn almost everything in it was, but eventually Doc unearthed a decent-enough sweatsuit in roughly Mac’s size. Sure, it was pink and bleach-stained, but at least it'd cover him.

Mac slung the sweatshirt over his shoulders like laundry off the back of a chair, but he kept the pants wadded up in his hands. “So I come back tomorrow, then what?”

“You'd better come ready to do some pull-ups,” Doc said.

Even that couldn't put a damper on the kid’s mood. “I’m _always_ ready,” he said as he walked out the door.

Mac went home, wherever home was for him. And Doc pulled himself back up the stairs, thinking of how, for the first time in his life, he was actually looking forward to Boxing Day.

**Author's Note:**

> I had to word-process this entire oneshot on mobile, so please be forgiving and point out any typos you see. :) Merry (early) Christmas.


End file.
